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The Orisha
Orisha.jpg After the flood — you know the one — a golden chain descended from Heaven. Either Obàtálá or Odùduwà, depending whom you ask, brought down a seashell full of dirt and a five-toed chicken. The creator spilled soil upon the face of the waters. The chicken pecked, spreading it into continents. Then the Òrìshà descended the chain to prepare the World. We call the place where the World was made Ilé-Ifè, “place of expansion.” Here, in West Africa, the Òrìshà looked after the flourishing Yorùbá kingdoms while their neighbors, the Vodun, cared for Dahomey’s Fon people. Two lands. Two peoples. Two pantheons, side by side since time immemorial. Thus the story was supposed to go — until human greed and villainy betrayed, kidnapped, tortured, enslaved, and brainwashed Africans. The trans-Atlantic slave trade shattered lives, families, and religions. Myriad peoples whom evil made one pieced them together anew from broken bones and halfremembered songs, all hidden behind a Christian veil. The Vodun (now more popularly known as the Loa) and the Òrìshà could have stayed behind, true to themselves to the bitter end. Instead, they rode the slave ships, tasted the lash, and laid down their lives for freedom in Haiti’s revolution and Brazil’s quilombos. They chose to change, to shatter and reform like humanity. These are the results. 'Principal Members' We list Òrìshà principals with Yorùbá nomenclature. “Aliases” gives Yorùbá AKAs (Yr) as well as their common equivalents in Spanish (Sp), Portuguese (Pt), Fon (Fn), Kreyol Ayisyen (Kr), and occasionally English (US), although correspondences across countries and seas are never exact. To circumvent religious persecution, Africans in captivity disguised the Òrìshà as Catholic figures, usually saints, listed under “Syncretisms.” Scion mechanizes Òrìshà and Loa as Gods and Olódùmarè as a Primordial, but remember these are not polite in-fiction terms. While “god,” “goddess,” and “deity” are popular translations of “Òrìshà” and “Loa,” formally speaking these pantheons recognize but one God: the tripartite sun-lord, Olórun/Olódùmarè/Olófin, also known as Mawu Bondye in Kreyol. Syncretism has popularized the appellation “saint,” but it’s a bit vulgar, like calling a lawyer or businessman a “suit.” Slavery and its aftermath have fragmented and reconstituted Òrìshà and Loa identities frequently and forcefully — and will continue to do so, perhaps before your eyes. Different regions, religions, and worshippers diverge on not only names and stories, but also familial relationships, genders, even ethnicities. If other deities are atoms, with a cloud of uncertainty orbiting a static core, Òrìshà and Loa are quantum particles. Even an individual Afro-Atlantic religionist may recognize many Mantles, or caminos as Cubans call them, in a single Òrìshà’s identity. One common relationship map (to which you shouldn’t get too attached) identifies Obàtálá and Yemoja-Oboto as king and queen of the Òrìshà. Òrúnmìlà, Èshù Elègbará, Ògún, and Oshóssí are their sons. Odùduwà wrested Ilé-Ifè from Obàtálá and begat Òyó’s founder Òrànmíyàn, who begat Ajaka and Shàngó. King Shàngó’s wives include Òshun and Oya Iyansan. Rounding out the pantheon are the Ìbejì, Òrishà-Oko, Òsanyìn, and Sònpònna. Pantheon Path Assest Skill: '''Medicine, Subterfuge '''Virtues: Tradition and Innovation. Old-school African values maintained abòrìshà and vodouisant communities in the face of overwhelming oppression, genocide, and opposition. But these religions would not be what they are today without upheaval and innovation. Catholic and Native American traditions changed Òrìshà and Loa devotion beyond merely allowing for clever disguises. Is old or new more important? The Òrìshà and Loa risked their very identities to safeguard African tradition: martial arts, songs, stories, language, medicine, and more. But the Yorùbá respect for mighty kings dominating effcient, paternalistic bureaucracies, while reliable, sits poorly with younger generations raised on (at least the illusion of) democracy. At its best, tradition empowers us to beneft from our ancestors’ lived experience, repeating history to prevent history from repeating itself. At its worst, tradition leaves us inﬂexible and fearful of change, unable to think laterally or leave our comfort zones. Historically, for example, menstruating women were never to touch ceremonial batá drums. What about transwomen who don’t menstruate? What about transmen who do? What if you just don’t feel like being sexist about drums? Innovation’s effects on the Òrìshà are undeniable. On this side of space and time, they have new identities, new celebrant populations, new herbs to work into magic and medicine. Ògún’s songs sacralize railroads and frearms. Shàngó reaches for his trusty baseball bat as often as his ancient two-headed axe. But adopting something new sometimes means giving up something old. While the art of capoeira accumulates new and impressive acrobatic ﬂourishes and pop-inspired songs, the jogo de navalha, or razor game, is almost forgotten. Mestre Pastinha’s ultimate secret technique, the Cat’s Leap, may already have passed into dream and rumor. As modern abòrìshà emerge into public view, with courts and higher education (if not society at large) finally acknowledging their right to worship, new conﬂicts complicate the dialectic. The Internet allows information once meticulously concealed to spread at unprecedented rates, but raises questions about authenticity and appropriation as occultists outside historical abòrìshà demographics latch on to charismatic Òrìshà and Loa with pop-culture presences like Òshun and Baron Samedi. Syncretism’s fate is at stake as well: if abòrìshà need no longer conceal their practice, should they discard the Catholic masks as outdated symbols of oppression? Or has Catholicism’s inﬂuence established tradition of its own? Every tradition was once an innovation. Every successful innovation will one day become tradition. Which is truly old, and which is new? Signature Purview: Gún/Cheval. Òrìshà and Loa possess willing (and, rarely, unwilling) humans in order to communicate with their ﬂocks, generally at religious ceremonies with plenty of drumming and dancing to get an Òrìshà’s, Loa’s, ancestor’s, or other spirit’s attention. Haitians say the possessed’s ti bon anj makes way for the spirit’s, letting the spirit make use of the possessed celebrant’s language, intellect, and body to communicate matters of spiritual import — and indulge in fne tobacco and liquor, which are hard to get in Heaven. This Purview confers the power to project one’s consciousness into another, to draw a spirit into one’s own form, and to detect (and counteract) possession in others. Cosmology 'The Soul's Nature' Besides their ara, or physical body, a Yorùbá soul has four components: *the èmi, or breath of life, which God grants of his own primordial being at birth and recalls upon death; *the orí (literally “head”), or personal destiny, which demarcates the course of an individual life — in Scion terms, the part that interacts with Fate; *the personal òrìshà, which determines one’s mythic origin, abilities, and limitations (much like how a character sheet delineates a roleplaying game character); and *the égún, the immortal spirit itself, which passes to Heaven after death to await reincarnation or become a revered ancestor The Dahomean tradition in Haiti, on the other hand, recognizes two components: the gwo bon anj, identical to the èmi; and the ti bon anj, analogous to the other three parts together. The ti bon anj undergoes up to 13 reincarnations, with sojourns in the spirit world and the forest in between them, before merging with the godhead. 'Heaven and Earth' The cross-in-circle cosmogram ḥ represents the universe as the Òrìshà and Loa know it. The World, “ayé” in Yorùbá, is the marketplace where mortals and spirits meet, have fun, and do business. Upon death, all égún (regardless of moral fber or lack thereof ) ascend to Heaven, the spirits’ home: “òrun” in Yorùbá, “Ginen” in Kreyol. The spirit world is fine, but even Òrìshà and Loa agree the World is far more interesting. Most spirits are eager to reincarnate, usually into their same family a few generations down the line. Renowned heroes, inﬂuential world leaders, religious luminaries, and the like prefer to hang out in òrun as ancestor spirits (Yorùbá “egúngún”). They possess performers at festivals to regale their descendants with judgment and advice. The World’s holiest place is Ilé-Ifè in southwestern Nigeria’s Osun State, where the Òrìshà frst descended from òrun to create ayé. The Yorùbá king of kings, Odùduwà’s Scion, still reigns in his palace there. But Yorùbá religious culture’s most active locus is São Salvador de Bahia de Todos os Santos, the “Black Rome” of Brazil. The Middle Passage’s shortest route connected Angola and Bahia. Accordingly, Bahia became a hub of American Yorùbá, Dahomean, and Kongolese culture. Bahia originated the Brazilian religion of candomblé as well as other Black arts such as capoeira and samba. Òrànmíyan and Shàngó’s capital of Òyó, in present-day Benin, is also important. Rivers in West Africa, as well as in West African outposts such as London, frequently harbor an Òrìshà, whether great as the Òshun and Niger or small as Esinmirin. 'Primordial' 'Olórun/Olódùmarè/Olófn, God Almighty' Aliases: Mawu (Fn), Bondye (Kr) Yorùbá and Dahomean religion is technically monotheistic. Olódùmarè is God Almighty, generally thought to be the same as the Abrahamic God, who lives alone in Heaven. His form, thoughts, and concerns are alien and remote even to the Òrìshà; only Òrúnmìlà interacts with him regularly 'Titans' 'None' The Òrìshà and Loa don’t believe in Titans. The worst tragedy ever to befall them, the trans-Atlantic slave trade, was ordinary humans’ fault. Òrìshà have quarreled and fought among themselves but, except for Odùduwà beating up nature spirits at the beginning of time (which no one else remembers), never approached a Titanomachy. They’ve heard the Devá label the Yazatas, Æsir, and any other Gods who oﬀend them asuras. They’ve noticed the Shén’s patronizing attitude towards gui. They know Titanomachies coincide with one ethnic group curb stomping another. “Titan,” they claim, is a slur privileged pantheons slap on pantheons they don’t like, to make their allies gang up on their enemies. “First they came for the Titans, and I did not speak out….” Instead, the Òrìshà and Loa’s archenemies are evil wizards and witches: regular humans who curse, sicken, and harm the innocent with occult knowledge. The deadliest are as subtle as they are powerful, blending in with other humans or transforming into animals to perpetrate wickedness. In the Americas, the Night Doctors creep about under cover of darkness, abducting black folks American society forgets. They then experiment on their captives, transforming them into monsters, infecting them with syphilis to see what happens, or pumping them full of deadly, experimental super-soldier serum. 'Religion' 'Candomble, Lukumi, the Shango Cult, and More' Wherever the Yorùbá live in the World — Nigeria, Benin, Ghana, Côte d’Ivoire, England, and the United States, primarily — there are abòrìshà, or Òrìshà devotees. They largely haven’t bothered to name their religion formally; it’s a thing they do, not a club they’re in. But Òrìshà devotion’s first great export came with the tragedy of slavery. The slave trade’s exponents frequently justified their crimes as humanitarian endeavors, bringing civilization and Christianity to African savages who were doing just fine with their own ancient civilization, thanks much. As if backbreaking servitude, cultural annihilation, and eventual accusations of reverse racism weren’t enough, the World’s slave masters forced African captives in the Americas to replace their traditional religions with Protestantism and Catholicism. In Haiti, Brazil, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Trinidad, Africans developed ingenious deceptions to preserve their practice: They used Catholic saints’ and religious figures’ names and iconographies as ciphers for African ones. For example, a popular lithograph missionaries distributed to slaves showed Santa Barbara with a tower in the background that was struck by lightning. Accordingly, “Santa Barbara” became Shàngó’s new codename. You could tell your friends things like, “Hey guys, after work tonight we’re gonna throw a party in honor of Santa Barbara,” even when whites walked by, without having to visit the whipping post. Unlike the World’s religions of the book, West African worship doesn’t rely heavily on concepts of faith or membership. Few abòrìshà will ask you whether you really believe in the Òrìshà; besides, do you actually need faith in a spirit which pops into your friend’s head to talk to you every week? The pantheon has cautiously entertained neo-pagan interest in their folkways as well, although you can probably imagine why it makes them nervous. You needn’t formally affiliate with the pantheon or their religions to participate in many ceremonies to honor the Òrìshà. The joke goes that many àbòrìshà first showed up because they smelled good food cooking for the sacrifices, then decided to stick around for the religion. You can be a Muslim abòrìshà, a Catholic abòrìshà…in fact, the Yorùbá King, the 401st Òrìshà, has always had a palace imam who’s a pretty big deal in Yorùbáland. 'Birthright' 'Creatures or Followers' Capoeira Players: Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian martial dance from the mean streets of São Salvador de Bahia, Brazil. Capoeiristas who lead dangerous lives often invoke the Òrìshà to protect them; for Òrìshà Scions, they’ll happily return the favor. Ijapa: If you were in a café and wanted to go to the bathroom and asked Ijapa to look after your computer for five minutes, he’d try to run off with it. Fortunately, he would fail, because he is a tortoise. Sometimes. Other times he’s human. Other times he’s a ninja-like anthropomorphic chelonian. He’s a trickster who’s always looking out for a way to get ahead, and if he’s your friend (and you put up with his pranks) he’ll use his cunning little mind for your benefit. 'Guides' Égún: Every abòrìshà who knows what’s good for them consults frequently with their ancestor spirits. Ifá Diviner: A babaláwo (male) or iyálawo (female) is a priest who has memorized and mastered Òrúnmìlà’s most sacred divinatory method. 'Relics' Èshù’s Red-and-Black Hat: Èshu tells the story: “One day I walked through a village wearing a hat that was black on one side, red on the other. Afterwards, half the villagers were talking about how lit my red hat was, the other half about how lit my black hat was. They were finna beat the hell out each other over who was right until I came back to watch them beat the hell out of each other and laugh. …I mean, uh, teach them an important lesson about acknowledging others’ perspectives. That’s totally what I did.” Sacred Drums: Instruments for calling spirits across grand cosmic distances are traditionally of the large conga drum variety, but perhaps a drum machine or ghetto blaster might be more convenient. 'Relationships' 'Other Pantheons' The Teōtl creep the Òrìshà out. They survived similar violent marginalization, but it didn’t really change them. They still love military aggression and human sacrifice, vices the Òrìshà gave up a long time ago. The Òrìshà get on great with the Manitou, who only take the fight to the most irredeemable Titanspawn. Oshóssí always tries his best to understand and respect the cultures he’s been Fatebound into, and Èshù’s social-media back and forth with Nana’b’oozoo (and Sun Wukong, for that matter) is great for a laugh. The Manitou are trying to mend fences between the Òrìshà and the Kami, who have a lot in common, but the Kami’s close relationship with the Devá discomfits the Òrìshà. The Òrìshà, with the exception of Odùduwà, think the Devá and Theoi, Titanomachy’s most ardent prosecutors, are privileged braggarts at best, racist warmongers at worst. You’d think they’d click with the Yazatas as a result, but the Òrìshà are pretty sure that if the Yazatas had the Devá’s luck, they’d have turned out equally annoying. For some unfathomable reason, people keep assuming the Òrìshà and Netjer know each other, or are related, or something. They don’t, and they’re not. The Òrìshà and Loa think Titanomachy is bullshit and they’re tired of being the only ones. They want as many other Gods and Titans as possible to lay down their arms and join them. The Manitou are already down. The Shén have considerable deep-seated prejudice to work through, but they agree in theory; in practice, they worry about angering their old and powerful friends and neighbors, the Devá. The close familial and cultural ties between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians have left them more sympathetic to the Òrìshà viewpoint than they’ll yet admit, but some of them are coming around. Of course, not all the Tuatha Dé Danann would be happy to discover Èshù talking turkey with Bres the Beautiful over pints of Guinness…. 'Greatest Weakness' The Òrìshà’s greatest weakness is overwhelming systemic racism and religious intolerance. West Africans abroad face monotheists’ accusations of idolatry in addition to expatriates’ usual stereotypes and struggles. But the even larger New World abòrìshà demographic descends mostly from enslaved Africans, who face overwhelming prejudice, violence, and economic injustice even today, even after overcoming impossible adversity. In the United States, for example, the Hialeah, Florida City Council passed an injunction in 1987 outlawing ritual animal slaughter, literally demonizing abòrìshà of their local Church of Lukumi Babalu Aye. Their priest, Ernesto Pichardo, sued the state of Florida, igniting a landmark case — Church of the Lukumi Babalu Aye, Inc. and Ernesto Pichardo v. City of Hialeah — which the United States Supreme Court decided in favor of the church, prohibiting the states from outlawing animal sacrifice. The court called Sònpònná himself as an expert witness.